


Roman Holiday

by vampirecult



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, gatsby - Fandom
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Drunken Confessions, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Roadtrips, being rich must be nice, exploitation of the phrase old sport, gatsby knows when hes bein crushed on but hes also like.. nick is so good i dont deserve him, nick is so gay pls help him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirecult/pseuds/vampirecult
Summary: Nick realizes he has a rapidly growing infatuation with his neighbor Jay Gatsby, who he's now come to call his best friend, but he has no idea how to deal with these feelings. When Gatsby invites Nick on vacation with him, he only becomes more confused. Will he be able to stay calm while they're alone together, or end up spilling what he's tried so hard to conceal?





	Roman Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this the end of my junior year of highschool and im now a freshman in college, so who knows if its actually good or not. ive recently gotten back into gatsby tho so i thought id post what i have so far! i hope its enjoyable because i definitely wanna complete this at some point.

It began almost without him knowing it. A small, lingering touch, kept there for only seconds after what would have been socially appropriate; the way his eyes would nearly unconsciously seek out the person he was thinking of, the person he always seemed to be thinking of; words left unspoken in menial conversations about meaningless people on a patio in the summer nights.

He didn’t see it coming until it came upon him in one great wave, drowning him in inescapable depths of complete and utter adoration for a person he knew he could not achieve. It had no mercy and offered no means of freedom, and he found he didn’t want it to. He was a week into this realization when he attended one of Gatsby’s parties.

He remembers it being louder and longer than the others he’d been to, and stocked with more alcohol than would ever be legal in this century or the next. He mingled more than usual – laughed more and danced more, for what reason he does not know. Maybe he was drunk on more than just brandy. Perhaps infatuation had sunk so far into his system that giving himself over to pleasures usually found at a party like this was only inevitable, considering whose party it was. There were girls, lots of girls, and even a few men, who had taken interest in him at this particular event, and his inhibitions were completely absent when he had accepted every offer of companionship they had given him. There wasn’t much after that, at least nothing that he could recall.

The entire night would be a haze in the morning. It was after three when the party’s illustrious host found him, half naked and near drowning in the fountain outside, confetti still sticking to his cheeks and in his hair. He was woken by a laugh, the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard. Then hands were on him, and he was being pulled out of the water. A hangover had already set in, and once he was sat down he raised a hand to his head and groaned.

“A bit poorly, old sport?” There it was; that voice. He looked up, his eyes taking their time in focusing, and soon he saw him, that most beautiful and elegantly poised man he had become so fond of over the past year. Jay Gatsby, the handsome scoundrel. Blonde hair, blue eyes and all, looking down at him like he was the most comedic thing he’d seen in a month. “And I see someone has made off with your shirt.”

Nick sat up with a start, remembering who he was in front of, and suddenly became very aware of his half-nakedness. Despite his roaring migraine, he managed to stand, with some struggle, and through his embarrassment crossed his arms in an effort to partially cover himself. Gatsby only smiled at this, understanding his friend’s shy nature, and came up with a solution.

“It’s no use finding your clothes in this mess. Come on upstairs, we’ll get you dressed and then you can be home to rest and work off that headache.” Gatsby turned and began to walk. Nick shifted uncomfortably, and as he began to walk noticed that his pants were heavy and wet with water. _Surely this would do a wonder for Gatsby’s floors,_ Nick thought sarcastically. But, as they went inside and passed puddles and piles of trash and wine, he felt less insecure about the streaks of water he left as he followed behind his friend. By ‘upstairs’, Gatsby had meant his dressing room, which was on the top floor of the massive mansion, and took some time getting to. Nick had been there before, but only briefly when he and Jordan had been touring the mansion for the first time so many months ago. Seeing it now, he could see how extensive Gatsby’s closet really was. Funny, since he only ever saw him wear a small several outfits that were largely based on the season he wore them in. Most of what he saw in the closet he’d never seen the man wear.

“Now,” Gatsby clapped his hands together once they were in the room. “To find you a shirt.” He seemed to know just where to go, and began opening closet doors and sifting through racks of suit jackets and dress shirts, along with thin jumpers and even some turtlenecks (which wouldn’t be fashionable until fall came). After searching meticulously through each of the bottom rows of clothes, he finally gave up and half-jogged over to the stairs to start with the clothes he kept on the upper ring of his apartment-sized closet.

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble.” Nick felt very imposing at that moment, and didn’t want to trouble his host for anything he had to take so much time looking for. “Honestly, Gatsby, I could just go home, I have a whole dresser of clean shirts I can put on once I get there.”

“Nonsense, old sport, it’s because of my party that you’ve lost your shirt. Let me pay for what you’ve lost.” Nick couldn’t exactly refuse such a gracious offer of hospitality; it would seem ungrateful, which he certainly wasn’t. It only took a few minutes longer, and then Gatsby returned from the loft, holding up a light gray casual sports shirt, with the sleeves buttoned so that they only reached the elbow. “How’s that, then? Suits you just well, doesn’t it?”

Nick could see that he had spent a long time looking for a shirt he thought he would like, so he nodded and smiled, expressing his appreciation for his friend’s generosity. Gatsby brought down the piece of clothing, folded, and handed it over to Nick, standing back. Nick was expecting to leave after that, hoping to retreat to his small cottage to recuperate from last night, but it seemed that his host wanted to see the shirt actually on his body before he could do so. It was only polite, seeing as he had spent so long looking for the perfect shirt just for him. Gatsby looked at him expectantly. Seeing he had no other option, Nick slid the shirt over his head – it was easy because he was so thin, as were his arms, and just about everything on him. Thus, the shirt didn’t fit as expected, as it was tailored specifically for Gatsby and not for a 130-pound Nick Carraway. He couldn’t help but chuckle looking down at himself, but he did admit the color fit him. Though the sleeves were buttoned, they still hung a bit longer on Nick’s arms due to his size, and the shirt was a little longer than was suitable. Gatsby took a step closer to straighten some spots that had gotten wrinkled while the shirt was being put on, and grinned.

“There. I apologize, my clothes aren’t really made for just anyone to wear. It does look nice on you though, if that’s any conciliation.” He glanced down, a small frown appearing on his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about your pants though, old sport.”

Nick absolutely balked. “Ah, yes…I don’t know how I ended up in the fountain, last night seems a complete mist to me now. I must have had more to drink than usual, it would seem.” He laughed nervously at himself, scratching the back of his head, feeling how disheveled his hair had become overnight. He felt like a mess. He must have looked so to Gatsby, who had fallen silent and was now staring intently at Nick’s chin, avoiding his eyes. Nick swallowed.

“I was watching you last night, Nick.” There was a silence. Nick dared to glance at Gatsby’s face, trying to gauge his expression, wanting to know whether what he’d done last night was worth him getting upset over. Gatsby spoke. “I saw you with lots of women…a few men. You were having a good time. Lots of alcohol, lots of dancing. And yet, there was something about the way you moved...” Nick was beginning to sweat under Gatsby’s gaze. Was that really him he was talking about? “There was something different. Something that wasn’t there before in the Nick that I’ve come to know. Tell me, Carraway…” At this point, Gatsby had moved right in front of the other man, so close that he could see the bright tones of blue in his eyes. “…Has something changed?”

It was a simple question, and yet it held so much weight in Nick’s heart. He stared right into Gatsby’s eyes and could see some sort of knowing, like he was withholding some great information that he had only recently become privy to. Had he figured it all out? Did he do something last night that had revealed everything he had worked so hard to hide? Maybe he drank too much or danced with all the wrong people, or maybe he’d offended his friend in some horrible way that he couldn’t even remember. Either way, he couldn’t stand the way Gatsby was looking at him.

“I…I don’t know what you mean, Jay. I can barely remember anything that happened last night, even less my state of mind when I arrived. If I’ve done anything wrong, please tell me.” Nick tried, hoping he sounded diplomatic. Gatsby stared for a minute longer, and then he looked away, walking to the window. He rested an elbow on the frame and looked down at the servants cleaning the remains of the party away. He laughed, not a loud or heavy laugh, just the kind you have when you suddenly remember something funny, and you don’t want anyone to notice.

"I remember the first time we met, you were so nervous. You tried to hide it, and did a good job, let me tell you, but I have a way of spotting people’s insecurities. You wanted to make a good impression, I could tell, after hearing all those rumors about me. I tried to make you as comfortable as I could, with what little time I had to speak with you. From then on I made a promise to always treat you with care. I don’t want you to be nervous around me, Nick, I want us to be…friendly.”

Gatsby looked at the other man from across the room, smiling sadly. “But I feel like you’ve returned to those feelings. I approached you last night, you know. You were sopping drunk on God knows whatever alcohol they were serving down there, and you couldn’t get a straight sentence out for the life of you. I felt…responsible. I tried to get you to get up, so I could get you home to rest, but you pushed me away. You, using the best language you could at the time, told me that you didn’t want to see me. If it’d been anybody else, I’d have laughed it off, like anyone would disregard a drunkard’s silly comments – but no, this time it felt different. It felt…sincere. I don’t mean to impose on you, but I have to ask, Nick. Do you hate me?”

He’d never seen such emotion come from Gatsby’s lips, nor had he ever been given a personal account of the man’s mysterious inner thoughts. His hands shook, and under the questioning eyes of his host, he started to feel severely uncomfortable.

“Jay, I…I don’t hate you, no. I could never hate you. I just…I feel…” A voice inside him told him to go ahead, to lay it all out while things were being shared, when Gatsby was being so open and honest, but his instinct told him that the worst could also happen, and was far more likely to be than the best that could happen. He knew Gatsby only wanted answers, but he wasn’t ready to give them. He didn’t know if he ever would be. “I have to go. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He averted his gaze so he couldn’t see the look in Gatsby’s eyes as he ran out the door, nearly losing his way as he tried to make it back to the ground floor. He could hear Gatsby calling his name somewhere in the mansion, but he couldn’t look back. He had to get away, out of that place, away from the person he had wanted so badly to hide from. Maybe by running away, he had left even more evidence of the reasons behind his strange behavior, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting home, back into the confines of his simple country house where he could lick his wounds and try to forget ever feeling anything more than friendship for Jay Gatsby. It was then that he became the person he is now; a person who hides from what he knows he wants. Someone who cannot accept their reality, and so retreats from it in his own mind, retreating from those around him, leaving nothing but excuses and silence behind.

He doesn’t know how many times _that man_ has called. He stopped counting at 10, but he knows it’s far past that now. He doesn’t feel like answering, anything he might say could lead to his collapse. He feels so supremely unstable that he has barely left the house in a week, save for occasional smokes out on the porch. He was smoking now more than usual – it kept him calm, knowing that when he stepped outside he’d be able to see the colossal castle next door, and relive that horrid night all over again. Since he had left Gatsby’s, he’d begun to remember bits and pieces of that night. He could almost clearly recall what Gatsby had said transpired between them while he was drunk as a dog and puking into the rose bushes. All his transient lovers had gone off to pass out in some alcove or hall where no one would find them until later in the day, and he had felt a deep loneliness such that he had never felt before. It was at that moment that Gatsby found him, approaching him all smiles, and offered to take him home, since he was in no state to get there alone. He had tried to pull Nick up, but Nick had flinched almost violently away from the man, leaving him looking shocked and a little offended.

 _"Don’t…touch me…”_ He had managed to get out, his stomach churning viciously. _“I…I can’t let you keep…taking ad-advantage of…me…”_ He remembered falling over then, but Gatsby didn’t try to help. _“I…don’t want to see you.”_

He cringed, the coffee in his mouth turning bittersweet as he choked it down. It was Saturday, and he’d been playing the scene over and over in his head for the entire week. He still had Gatsby’s shirt, folded neatly on his dresser in the back bedroom, waiting indefinitely for someone to return it to its owner. He knew he had to return it sometime, he couldn’t just keep another man’s shirt like it was a gift. Even then, it wasn’t like he could just waltz over to Gatsby’s and expect only to give him the shirt back. He would want to talk; that’s how Gatsby was. He was straightforward and didn’t leave room for white noise when it came to his relationships.

He knew he couldn’t avoid Gatsby forever, nor could he hide anything from the man. Lying would only make their already rocky relationship even worse, and Nick didn’t want to see what they had disappear. He had ruined everything by going to that party, knowing that when he saw Gatsby he would lose all sense of willpower he had steeled himself with in order to conceal what he’d come to find out about himself within the last month. Why couldn’t he control himself around Gatsby? It had been so easy to talk to him before all of… _this_. So why was it different now? Shouldn’t he _want_ to talk to him, the person he’d come to call his _best friend_? Maybe it was exactly that…Nick didn’t want to ruin their friendship. He knew what he felt was only making things progressively worse, and he couldn’t live with ignoring Gatsby like this. Not only was it rude – Nick and Gatsby were friends, weren’t they? Friends didn’t treat each other this way. He would have to find a way to fix things before they were irreparable.

For the next few days, Gatsby stopped calling. The silence between them was eating away at Nick, but he still had no clue how to approach the situation. He couldn’t act like nothing had happened, that was too easy and too obvious; not to mention that, if left alone, there would always be that tension between them that neither of them could ignore. It would have to be addressed at some point. With that in mind, Nick decided to give it a few more days, just to allow himself some room to think. He would need a good explanation that wouldn’t reveal anything about his… _emotional state_. That would take some time to prepare for. Sure, he was a writer, but coming up with a good dialogue took weeks for even the greatest authors.

It was Wednesday, and it had been a week and a half since he’d last spoken to his neighbor. The time was about noon, and the sun was beating down, the temperature only saved by the sporadic gusting of warm wind that only seemed to hit Nick’s porch. He was sitting in one of those wooden white-painted chairs, trying to hold the pages of his book down from the wind. A pitcher of iced tea sat next to him while he read, beads of sweat rolling down its side. The ice was half melted, and Nick realized he wasn’t that thirsty anyway. He kept reading the same paragraph over and over, something about dark passages and a short conversation between a cop and a suspect. He was having a hard time concentrating, when the funniest thing caught his sight, crossing his lawn wearing a simple outfit that consisted of a white dress shirt and casual sports pants. It was entirely too modest for a man like him to be wearing.

 _Gatsby_. A part of Nick was relieved at seeing his friend come over to his place, after days of not seeing or even speaking to him, but a bigger part was growing in him with mounting anxiety, terrifying thoughts shooting around his brain like evil little fireworks. Though, now that Gatsby had come closer, he could see him smiling. He came to the porch railing and leaned on it as he spoke.

“It’s much too windy to be reading, old sport.” He nodded towards Nick’s copy of Rinehart’s _The Red Lamp_. “You’re a mystery fan, I see.”    

“It’s just something I picked up from the library.” Nick surprisingly replied with ease. Though it was a lie – he’d had the book since his adolescent years, when he had aspired to become a detective. Something told him Gatsby would find that silly, and he didn’t feel like being laughed at today. Even if it did mean he’d hear his laugh again, something he’d come to adore about the man. His laugh was a rare one, something you only heard when he was in an especially good mood. Thinking of nothing else to say, he shut the book and, to help soothe the situation, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. He gestured to the pack, silently offering a smoke to the man opposite of him. Smiling, he indulged, finally ascending onto the porch to retrieve it.

“Got a light?” Gatsby put the cigarette between his lips and looked at Nick expectantly. The latter’s eyes lingered longer than what must have been appropriate on the other’s mouth, and again Nick recognized that he really couldn’t distract himself from Gatsby, no matter what existed between them. The other man repeated his question.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Nick pulled out his silver lighter and let Gatsby lean slightly towards him to catch the light. He took his own from the pack, and once they were both lighted and standing, nearly halfway through their smokes, Gatsby turned to his friend. Not the way you would if you were simply paying attention to your conversational partner; no, this was a full body turn. A bit nervous at this, Nick copied his movement, sensing he had something important to say. And why wouldn’t he? Gatsby grinned at the other, taking in the last of his cigarette and smashing it delicately in the porcelain ashtray that sat next to the melted pitcher of tea.

“Nick, I’d like to propose an idea to you.” Nick stood at full attention. “How would you like to accompany me on a personal trip? Just you and I of course, I know my other acquaintances tend to put you a little on edge. We could go anywhere you want. I was thinking the Great Lakes. I haven’t been there since I was a boy, you know. There will be…”

He heard Gatsby continue but he was still hung on something. Had he heard him correctly?

“Just you…and I?” He repeated, interrupting Gatsby in his talk about the sight you could see looking out across Lake Michigan. He looked up at Nick, a confused expression adorning his perfectly formed features.

“Why, yes, of course. What did you think I meant?” He leant on the rail in a manner that construed he was completely comfortable with what he was saying. Nick swallowed. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Nothing appeared on Gatsby’s face that translated false pretense. He grinned even wider, closing his eyes when the wind again hit Nick’s cozy wooden porch. Nick took a moment to enjoy the look on Gatsby’s face, as it was an infrequent thing to see him so relaxed. Still, he had questions.

“Is…that all you come to talk about?” He ventured cautiously, testing Gatsby’s intentions. The man opened his eyes, returning from his enjoyment of the warm summer breeze, and seemed to be looking inside of himself.

“Well…no. I wanted to apologize to you, for being so direct last week after my last party. It was rude of me to bother you about something so personal.” Gatsby smiled, as if to turn Nick’s spirits up. “And something else. I at least had to come back to get my shirt, you know.”

Nick chuckled, even after hearing about last week’s incident. He didn’t think it was right for Gatsby to be apologizing at all; it was he who was in the wrong. He had no right to treat Gatsby that way after all the kindness the other man had shown to him. But Gatsby was such a warm soul, such a gentleman, that it wasn’t a shock to see him be the one to step up.

“Really, Jay, you shouldn’t be the one to say sorry— “

“No, I’m afraid I must insist on regretting my actions. I shouldn’t be invading your privacy, Nick.” He couldn’t deny the apologetic smile on Gatsby’s lips. He nodded, acknowledging that Gatsby wanted nothing more than to absolve the tension between them.

“Um, about this…’personal trip’…” Nick changed the subject, not wishing to dwell on the negative. “Is it really okay for you to be away from your… _business_ , for so long? Not that I wouldn’t enjoy partaking in this vacation of sorts. Of course, I’d have to call into the bank as well and make preparations.” Nick fidgeted just thinking about calling into his boss. How would he explain just up and going away on a holiday with his neighbor? It would seem like he cared more about luxury than his job, but he couldn’t say no to Gatsby, could he? Not after last week. He needed to make it up to him.

“Nonsense, old sport, I have no obligations to my work. I’m sure they’d understand me spending some time with my friend.” At those words, Gatsby looked directly into Nick’s eyes, as if the word ‘friend’ could possibly have some deeper meaning. But no, that couldn’t have been possible, Nick thought. He was just projecting his own feelings into Gatsby’s words and making things seem different than they actually were. He averted his gaze, and instead looked out onto the lawn, mindlessly gazing at the flowers. His lawn desperately needed a trim, he noted. “So,” Gatsby continued. “Are you saying yes?”

Nick thought. Going with Gatsby would mean they would be alone for extended periods of time, probably talking, and doing God knows what else he had planned for the two of them. A part of him was positively giddy at the idea of having Gatsby all to himself for two days or more, alone on the water or taking drives by the lake reminiscing this and that about old memories or each other’s past. It seemed almost dreamlike and he couldn’t believe it was near being made reality. On the other hand, Nick couldn’t avoid his feelings. If he were alone for that long with Gatsby, he could unconsciously let something slip. He could accidentally touch his hand, or stare too long into his sparkling blue eyes, or something worse: he could verbally expose himself. Gatsby loved to talk; it was a skill of his. He was charismatic and almost never slipped in his speech. He was so unlike Nick, who fumbled with his words and would sometimes speak his thoughts out loud, even if they weren’t the most favorable.

Nick cast a glance at the character in question, still patiently waiting for a reply. The corners of Gatsby’s perfectly soft lips curled upwards in a tentative smile. His eyes seemed to absorb Nick and _only_ Nick in that moment, and it was difficult not to get lost in them.

“Yes. It’s a definite yes.”

“Ah! I was hoping you’d say that,” Gatsby beamed, patting Nick heartily on the back. “I won’t let you down, old sport. This weekend will be _entirely_ unforgettable.”

After talking a bit more, Nick retrieved Gatsby’s shirt from inside, and they bid each other farewell with a promise of reuniting on Friday to leave for their trip. With his neighbor gone, Nick finally had time to let everything sink in. Sitting on his bed and staring at the setting sun, he felt on the brink of something. Change? Discovery? There were so many things this weekend could bring. Gatsby was an enigma, so his intentions weren’t always clear, but Nick liked to think he knew him better than anyone else in West Egg (or the world, for that matter). Whatever Gatsby had planned for the two of them, it was bound to bring about something evolutionary between them. Nick could only hope he was ready for it.

**Author's Note:**

> nick needs to get his shit together


End file.
